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Our Lady's Tumbler 






OUR LADY'S TUMBLER: 
A TALE OF MEDIEVAL 
FRANCE £» TRANSLATED 
INTO ENGLISH FROM 
THE OLD FRENCH BY 
ISABEL BUTLER £* BOS- 
TON: COPELAND AND 
DAY : MDCCCXCVIII 






H& 




Entered according to Act of Con- 
gress by Copeland and Day 1898 
in the Library for Congress at 
Washington 






TRANSLATOR'S NOTE 
Our Lady's Tumbler is one 
of a large body of stories much 
beloved in Mediaeval France 
that turn upon some miracle per- 
formed by the Virgin, — a type of 
story of which the most familiar 
example in English is the tale 
told by Chaucer's prioress. Ear- 
ly in the thirteenth century sev- 
eral collections of these miracles 
were compiled, the two most 
important being those of Gau- 
tier de Coinci, prior of Vic-Sur- 
Aisne, and of Jean le Marchant, 
a priest of Chatres. Though 
most of the legends are interest- 
ing to us to-day mainly for the 
curious insight they give us into 
the religious sentiment of the 



time, there are yet not a few that 
we like for their own sakes, 
for their naivete, sincerity, and 
pathos. 

These tales — of which about 
a hundred distinct examples re- 
main, besides endless variations 
— differ much among them- 
selves in incident and dramatis 
personae. In them we are not, as 
in the romances, always in the 
company that Aucassin pre- 
ferred, that "of the goodly 
clerks, and the goodly knights 
that fight in tourneys and great 
wars, and stout men of arms, and 
all men noble." Village priests 
andthievesandstrollingmounte- 
banks figure as heroes as well as 
knights and great lords. 



One tale is of a poor priest, 
very devout, very charitable, and 
very ignorant. Being unable to 
read his breviary, he celebrated 
day after day the Mass of Our 
Lady, the only one that he knew 
by heart. At length news of the 
matter reached the bishop, who, 
much scandalised, straightway 
turned the offender out of office. 
But his disgrace was short, for 
that same night Our Lady ap- 
peared in a vision to the bishop 
and commanded that the good 
man be at once reinstated. An- 
other story is of a thief who, how- 
ever busy he might be about his 
trade, never forgot his prayers 
to the Virgin. And when at last 
he was taken and condemned 



to be hung, Our Lady herself 
stretched out her fair white hands 
beneath his feet and supported 
him, so that he felt no hurt or in- 
convenience from the rope about 
his neck. Those who had pre- 
viously condemned now gladly 
released him; on thus regaining 
his freedom he entered a monas- 
tery and vowed himself to the 
service of the Virgin. 

In spite of their variety of de- 
tail, all the stories are yet domi- 
nated by onecommonsentiment, 
— that of pity. It is true that from 
the point of view of justice this 
compassion seems often some- 
what oddly bestowed, and the 
reward, say of the thief for duly 
reciting his prayers at proper 



intervals, wholly undeserved. 
Yet even such cases as these 
may be taken as but the extreme 
expression of the idea of human 
weakness and the power of for- 
giveness so deeply rooted in 
mediaeval Christianity. 

Though Our Lady's Tumbler 
shows this same spirit of naive 
faith and devotion, it yet differs 
from the majority of similar tales 
by its subtler moral thinking, and 
a more lifelike presentment of 
its story. The minstrel himself, 
his embarrassment among his 
new companions, his doubts, his 
compunctions, his final determi- 
nation to serve by his own trade 
as best he may, and the eager- 
ness with which he goes about 



his work, all this comes home to 
us sharply enough. So too does 
the monk who spied upon the 
convert when at his curious de- 
votions, and who could laugh at 
the spectacle and yet like the 
man the better for the earnest- 
ness with which he plied his 
trade. Thus instead of being hur- 
ried on to the miracle at the end, 
we are allowed to linger by the 
way ; and through all the story 
we find something of the temper 
of the monk who was moved by 
the tumbler's way of serving 
both to mirth and to compassion. 
The original, like most medi- 
aeval stories, is written in verse, 
the form being the much-used 
short octosyllabic line arranged 



in rhyming couplets. Of the his- 
tory of the little poem we know 
almost nothing. Its editor, Wil- 
helm Fcerster, tells us that its 
language is of the end of the 
twelfth century, and its dialect 
that of the Isle de France. Be- 
yond this his information is pure- 
ly negative. Its author is un- 
known, and so too is its precise 
date ; it is not found in any of the 
chief collections of the miracles 
of Our Lady, and, although its 
author asserts that he has found 
his material in the lives of the 
Fathers, its sources have not yet 
been discovered. 

The poem, edited from a manu- 
script in the Arsenal Library in 
Paris, by Foerster, first appeared 



in the "Romania" for 1873. It 
has, somewhat oddly, never been 
reprinted; so that the story that 
a specialist like M. Gaston Paris 
and a literary wanderer like M. 
Anatole France unite in prais- 
ing is still only to be found in the 
back number of a learned maga- 
zine. In 1894 a translation by P. 
H. Wicksteed was published in 
England. The fact that the edi- 
tion was a small one, and the 
book already out of print, excuses 
another version. 

When Fcerster brought out the 
story in 1 873, he knew of the exis- 
tence of but a single manuscript. 
Since then two more have been 
found, a second in the Arsenal 
Library and another in the Na- 



tional Library. In 1880 Gustav , 
Groeber published the variants of 
these manuscripts in the " Zeit- 
schrift fiir Romanische philolo- 
gie" (Vol. IV.). The variations 
of text are for the most part 
slight and, from a literary point 
of view, unimportant. In a few 
instances, however, Grceber's 
readings have been adopted in 
the present translation. 



&OUR LADY'S TUMBLER 
^ N the lives of the early 
1^3 fathers, where there is 
<^M$3 much goodly matter, we 
ti?l=-^> are told this tale. I do not 
/psay that there is not many an- 
\jbother to be heard fairer than this, 
Jonly that this is not of so little 
v worth but that it is good to tell. 
Now speak we of a certain min- 
strel and what befell him. 
nl^B~£ E came and went for so 
J ^lMp| long in divers places, and 
^ftsfek so wasted his strength, 
Fthat at last, weary of the world, he 
I withdrew into a holy order. His 
horses, his garments, his money, 
Jl and all that he had he put therein, 
4((jand left the world, for he would 
5* follow its ways no more. Thus, 

I 



then, he came into the monas- 
tery which, men say, was that 
of Clair vaux. Now, though the 
youth was of much worship, and 
fair and well made and goodly, 
he yet knew no craft of which 
the folk there stood in any need. 
For he had lived only by tum- 
bling and leaping and dancing; 
and though he knew right well 
how to leap and to spring, he 
knew naught beside, for no other 
lesson had he ever learned, nor 
knew he either Pater Noster, or 
pxhant, or Credo, or Ave, or aught 
welse that might work for his sal- 
£vation. 

OW, when he was come 

into the monastery and saw 

>the tonsured brethren who let 




no word fall from their lips, but 
spoke among themselves by 
signs, he believed that they held 
communication one with an- 
other only in this wise. But soon 
he was undeceived, and learned 
that they denied themselves 
speech only as a penance, where- 
fore at certain times they were 
silent. And it seemed to him fit- 
ting that he too should forego 
speech ; and he remained silent 
so cheerfully and so persistently 
that he would not speak for a 
whole day, were he not other- 
wise commanded, whereatthere 
was often much laughter. And 
the minstrel was much abashed 
and ill at ease among the breth- 
ren, for he knew not how to share 



by word or by deed in that which 
was the practice of the place ; so 
was he dejected and heavy at 
heart. He sawthe monks andthe 
lay brothers each serving 4Bod 
in his place and after the man- 
ner appointed to him. He saw 
the priests before the altar, for 
that was their office; he saw the 
deacons at the Gospels, and the 
sub-deacons at the vigils; and 
the acolytes in their turn were 
ready at the Epistles when the 
time was. One recited a psalm, 
and another the lesson for the 
day; the young clerks were at 
their psalters, and the lay broth- 
ers at the litanies, — for sucH is 
the order in these matters, — 
while the more ignorant said 
their Pater Nosters. A 



*m 



jf E looked about him up and 
c>*H* down through all theoffices 
gand courts, and in many a hid- 
den corner he saw men in fours 
or fives or twos, or singly may- 
be ; and if so that he might, he 
looked hard at every man of 
them. He heard one groan, and 
another weep, and a third sigh 
and lament, and much he mar- 
velled what the matter might be. 
"If^oly &£ary," said he, " what is 
amiss with these men that they 
bear themselves thus, and make 
such dole? Methinks they must 
be sore vexed and troubled to be- 
moan themselves thus." Then 
he said again : ' ' J^oly &£ary , alas, 
and woe is me ! what is this that 
I have said? I do believe that 



they pray 4B>od's mercy. But I, 
poor wretch that I am, what do I 
do here? There is no one so base 
in all the convent but strives to 
serve <U5od in his own manner; 
but I have no trade that is of serv- 
ice to me here, and I do naught 
by word or by deed. Caitiff was 
I when I came into this place, 
for I know nor prayer, nor aught 
else that is good. I see one here 
and another there; but I do 
naught but dream away my time, 
and eat my bread to no purpose. 
Now, if this thing be noted con- 
cerning me, a sorry fall shall be 
mine, for they will cast me out of 
doors. And here am I a strong 
fellow, and yet I do naught but 
eat. Truly a poor creature am I 



in a goodly place." Then he wept 
to relieve his grief, and wished 
he were dead. "Jj^oly ft^ary, 
pother," he said again, "I be- 
seech you pray <iBod, your Sov- 
ereign f ather, that He hold me 
in His favour, and that He send 



-.(me good counsel how I may 
j \j\ serve Him and you, and earn the 
®/fi bread that I eat; for I know that 



fns my present ways are evil. 
CNM^iS^ HEN he hac * bemoaned 
^^(CwIrR himself thus, he went 
.©V*^5> awa y through the clois- 
((?ter, looking this way and that, 
until he came into a crypt ; there 
he crouched down by an altar, 
drawing himself as close to it as 
he might. Above the altar was 
a statue of <©ur ftady, the i^oly 



J 



Sl^ary, and he did not go astray 
when he came into that place; 
no, in sooth, for <£Bod, who directs 
His own, had guided his foot- 
steps thither. Anon, when he 
heard the mass begin, he sprang 
up dismayed, "Ah! how am I 
brought to shame," he cried; 
" now everyone is saying his les- 
son, and I am as a tethered ox, 
for I do naught but browse, and 
I eat my bread to no purpose. 
Shall I serve neither by word 
nor by deed? By the pother 
of <©od, I will ; nor shall I win 
any blame thereby; I will do 
what I have been taught to do, 
and I will serve the pother of 
4Bod here in her monastery by 
my own trade ; the others serve 

8 



by singing, and I will serve by 
tumbling/ ' 

He took off his cloak and dis- 
robed himself, and laid his gar- 
ments beside the altar; but that 
he might not be wholly naked, 
he kept on a coat that was light 
and fine of texture ; of little more 
weight was it than a shirt, and 
the rest of his body was left free. 
He girded and busked him, right 
well he girdedihis coat and made 
him ready. Then he turned to 
the image, and looked up at it 
very humbly: "Hady," said he, 
"into your care I commit me, 
body and soul, gentle flady, 
<£weet<©ueen,donotdespisethat 
which I know, for I would serve 
you in all good faith, and so 4Bod 



may help me, without offence. 
I know not how to read or to sing, 
but right gladly will I show you 
my most chosen tricks of tum- 
bling; and I will be as the young 
calf that skips and springs be- 
fore his mother. Hady, who are 
never cruel to those who serve 
you faithfully, such as I am now 
am I wholly yours." 

Then he began to leap and to 
spring, now up and now down, 
beginning first with small ca- 
pers, and then leaping higher and 
higher. And then he went down 
on his knees before the image, 
and bowed before it, saying: 
"&£ost c&weet <©ueen, of your 
grace and your mercy despise 
not my service." Then again 

JO 



he leaped and tumbled, and, to 
make merry, he did the trick of 
Metz around his head. Anon he 
bowed before the image and 
worshipped her, and honoured 
her with all that he had. Then 
he did the French trick and the 
trick of Champagne, and next the 
Spanish trick, and the tricks they 
do in Brittany, and then the 
trick of Lorraine; and he did 
them all with great travail, and 
spared himself not at all. There- 
after he did the Romish trick, 
and putting his hands before his 
face, danced right featly and 
fairly, as he looked all humbly 
upon the image of the Smother of 
4Bod. "ftady," he said, "this is 
good disport; and I do it for no 

U 



other save for you and for your 
£on before all, so 4B>od may help 
me, I do not. And I dare boast 
and maintain that I do not do this 
for my own pastime, but only to 
serve you, and to acquit myself; 
the others serve, and I serve. 
3tady, despise not your thrall, 
for I serve you for your delight. 
Slady, you are the highest joy, 
whoever reckons all the world." 
Then he tumbled with his feet in 
the air, and went and came on his 
two hands, touching the earth 
only with these ; yet even while 
his feet were dancing the tears 
fell from his eyes. "3lady," he 
said, "I worship you with my 
heart and my body, my feet and 
my hands, for I know not how to 

12 



worship you in any other way. 
Henceforth will I be your min- 
strel; and while the others of 
the convent are chanting within, 
I will come and tumble here 
for your delight Slady, you can 
guide me. In oBod's name, de- 
spise me not." Then he con- 
fessed his sins, and made moan 
and wept softly, for that he knew 
no other manner of worship. 
Then he turned away and made 
a spring, "itady," he said, "so 
45od may save me, this thing 
did I never before. This trick is 
wholly new, and is not for com- 
mon folk, Hady, how his desires 
would be fulfilled who should 
dwell with you in your glorious 
manor. In 40od's name, Hady, 

13 



receive me there; wholly yours 
am I, nor mine at all." And 
again he did the trick of Metz, 
and tumbled and danced persist- 
ently. And when he heard the 
sound of the chant rise higher, 
he exerted himself the more ; and 
as long as the mass lasted, so 
long did he leap and skip and 
dance, and never ceased till he 
was so spent that he could no 
longer hold himself upright, but 
sank down for very weariness, 
and fell to the ground exhausted ; 
and as the fat runs out of a piece 
of roast meat, so the sweat ran 
off all his body from head to 
foot. "Hady," said he, " I can do 
no more now, but in sooth I 
will come again." 

14 




*LL burning seemed he with 
gheat. He put on his gar- 



ments, and when he had clothed 
himself he arose, and bowed be- 
fore the image, and went his 
way. "Farewell," he said,"Most 
Sweet Friend, in 40od's name be 
not cast down, for if I may I will 
return, and every hour I will 
serve you the best I can, — if it 
please you, and if it be permitted 
to me." Then he went away, 
still looking back at the image. 
"Hady , ' ' said he, " much it r ep ent- 
eth me that I do not know all 
those psalters, for right gladly 
would I say them over for love 
of you, almost £weet 3£ady. To 
you I commend me, body and 
soul." 

15 




ND he continued long in 
this way of life, returning 
without fail at every hour to offer 
^his homage and his service be- 
fore the image. For his delight 
lay in this thing; and gladly he 
performed it, so that there was 
never a day when he was so 
weary that he would not yet do 
£*his best for the delight of the 
Smother of 4B>od; nor did he ever 
desire other pastime. 

HEY of the house knew, 



*ifCl^) no doubt > that he went 

^b»-TO every day to the crypt, but 
no one, save 4Bod, knew what he 
did there ; and he would not for 
all the riches of the world that 
anyone save the Slord oBod alone 
were aware of his employment. 

16 



®. 



For he feared that if they should 
know of it they would straight- 
way drive him out from thence, 
and cast him back into the world 
that so teems with sin ; and he 
had rather that he were dead 
than that sin should again sting 
him. But <£5od, who read the in- 
tent of this good man, and all 
his compunctions, and knew for 
whose love he did this thing, 
willed that his deed should no 
longer be hid. Rather, the Slord 
willed and determined that the 
labour of His friend should be 
known and made manifest, for 
the sake of i^is another for whose 
delight he had wrought, and that 
all might see and know and un- 
derstand that 45od refuses no 

17 




lone that comes to Him in love, 
whatsoever his estate may be, if 
5 he but love 45od and do right. 
' — ~°^ O you think that <d5od 
would have prized his 
service if it had been of- 
jftfered without love? Nay, not so, 
ro however much he had tumbled; 
but it was the man's love that the 
fiord held dear. Though you toil 
and travail, and watch and fast, 
and weep and sigh, and groan 
and pray; though you do pen- 
ance, and go to mass and to 
matins, and pay what you owe, 
and give all that you have, — yet, 
if you love not the fiord <©od 
with your whole soul, all these 
things are thrown away, so that, 
in sooth, they shall avail not for 

18 



your salvation. For without love 
and without pity all labour is as 
naught. OBod asks not for gold 
nor for silver, but only for love 
in the hearts of His people. And 
this man loved oBod unfeign- 
ingly, and therefore his service 
was sweet to the Hord. 

g§& HE good man continued 
a(€(<§|) long in this way of life. I 
bSss^o cannot tell you how many 
years he lived at peace, but at 
* I length he was thrown into much 
^trouble. For a monk took note 
of him, and blamed him much 
in his heart in that he came 
not to matins ; and he marvelled 
what became of him, and said 
within himself that he would 
never rest until he had discov- 

19 



£! 



c 



ered what manner of man this 
was, and what was the service 
that he did, and how he earned 
his bread. Now the monk so fol- 
lowed him, and so watched and 
spied upon him, that he saw him 
perform all his tricks, even as I 
have told you. " By my faith," 
he said, "this man makes merry; 
he holds higher festival, it seems 
to me, than all the rest of us to- 
gether. While the others are at 
prayer, or at work throughout 
the household, this man dances 
here as bravely as if he had a 
hundred marks of silver. Yet he 
does his task well, and pays us 
what he owes. And this is right 
enough, — we sing for him and 
he tumbles for us ; we pay him 

20 



and he pays us ; and if we weep, 
he makes us good return. I 
would that all the convent might 
see him as I do now, — even 
though the terms were I should 
fast for it until night. There is 
no one, I think, who could keep 
from laughter if he saw the 
eagerness of this poor wretch, 
and how he exerts himself in 
his tumbling, and how he strives 
much, and spares himself not at 
all. 4Bod makes of it a penance 
for him, since he does it with no 
ill intent; and, certes, for my 
part I think no harm of it, for he 
does it, as I deem, in all good 
faith according to his light, and 
because he would not be idle." 
And with his own eyes the monk 

2\ 




saw how, at each hour of the 
day, the good man toiled and 
rested not; and he laughed much 
thereat and wept, for he was 
moved by it both to mirth and to 
compassion. 

E went to the abbot and 
told the whole story as 
^__ ; you have already heard 
$it/and the abbot arose and said 
[to the monk: "Now do not 
' spread this abroad, but be silent, 
for by your vows I command 
,JI : you; and do you obey my corn- 
s' mandment to speak of it to no 
one save to me. And we will go 
together to see this thing, and 
learn the truth of it. And we will 
pray to the J^eavenly Jiing, and 
to j|is most £weet pother, the 

22 



Radiant, the 2£>eloved, that she 
in her gentleness beseech her 
£on, her father, her Hord, that I 
may see this sight to-day, if it be 
J^is will; that <(5od thereby may 
be the more beloved, and the 
good man be not blamed, — if J^e 
wills thus." Then they went all 
quietly to the crypt, and with- 
out mishap hid themselves in a 
nook hard by the altar, in such 
wise that the good man saw 
them not. And the abbot and 
monk watched all the convert's 
devotions, and the divers tricks 
that he performed, and all his 
leaping and dancing; and they 
saw how he bowed before the 
image, and how he skipped and 
sprang till his strength failed 

23 



him. For he so exerted himself 
in his weariness that he might 
no longer hold himself upright, 
but fell to the ground exhausted. 
So worn and spent was he with 
his labours that the sweat ran 
out from all his body down upon 
the floor of the crypt. But pres- 
ently, and in a little space, his 
most J>weet Hady came to suc- 

, cour him, she whom he had 
served so truly, gladly she came 
at his need. 

a^ND the abbot watched 

£and straightway saw a 

plady come down to him 

ls>\f rom the vault, so glorious 

that none was ever seen like to 

f li her in loveliness or in richness 
of adornment, for none so beau- 

24 



tiful was ever born. Her gar- 
ments were rich with gold and 
precious stones; and with her 
came angels and archangels 
from heaven, who came about 
the minstrel and gave him com- 
fort and consolation. And when 
they were gathered about him 
his heart was lightened. Then 
they hastened to serve him, for 
they longed to reward him for 
the service that he had paid to 
their ILady, that most £weet 
iBonder. And the sweet and gra- 
cious <©ueen held in her hands a 
white napkin, and with it she 
fanned her minstrel right gently 
before the altar. The flady, noble 
and gentle, fanned his face, and 
neck, and body to cool him; 

25 



gladly she succoured him, and 
gave herself wholly to the task. 
But the good man takes no heed 
of this, for he neither sees nor 
knows what goodly company is 
about him. 

The holy angels do him great 
honour; but now they may stay 
with him no longer, and their 
Hady stays not, but makes the 
sign of the cross upon him, and 
turns away. The holy angels 
follow her, yet they find a won- 
drous delight in gazing back 
upon their comrade, and do but 
await the hour when 4Bod shall 
call him from this life and they 
may receive his soul. And this 
the abbot and his monk saw in 
very deed a good four times; for 

26 



it befell that at every hour the 
Smother of 4Bod returned to aid 
and to succour her servant, — 
well knows she how to succour 
her own. And the abbot was 
much rejoiced thereat, for he 
3) had been very desirous to get 
the truth of the matter. 

ND now <*Bod had clearly 
shown thatthe service the 
poor man offered to Him 
pleasing in His sight. The 
monk was all abashed, and his 
j anguish burned him as a fire. 
\" My lord," he said to the abbot, 
"have mercy! this is a very holy 
man that I see here. Now if I 
have spoken any evil concern- 
ing him it is right that my body 
suffer for it. So lay a penance 

27 




upon me, for, in sooth, this is a 
good man and a true. We have 
seen all this matter from end to 
end, and we can never be in any 
doubt concerning it." And the 
abbot said: "You speak truly, 
and oBod has made it plain that 
He loves him with a great love. 
Now I command you straight- 
way, in virtue of obedience, and 
if you would not fall under sen- 
tence, that you speak to no one 
of what you have seen, save 
only to OBod and to me." "My 
lord," he said, "I give you my 
promise." And with these words 
they went away, and stayed no 
longer in the crypt. And the good 
man lingered not, but, having 
finished his task, he put on his 

28 



% garments, and went to take his 
^) # pastime in the monastery. 
S^a^ySHUS the time came and 
^jp^&went until a short space 
^■^^■thereafter it befell that 
(&sz4&zthe abbot summoned to 
him the man who was so com- 
^ pact of goodness. Now, when he 
3(j)/ heard that he was summoned, 
and that the abbot had asked for 
him, his heart was full of bitter- 
ness, for he knew not what he 
should say. " Alas," thought he, 
" now am I accused. Never shall 
I be for a day without annoy and 
travail and shame, for my ser- 
vice is as naught. I fear it is not 
pleasingto 4Bod, but rather, alas ! 
it is displeasingto Him, since the 



29 



truth of it has become known. 
Did I think that such labour as 
mine and such pastime were fit 
to please the Itord <£5od? Nay, 
they could not please Him. Alas! 
I have done no good thing. Woe 
is me! what shall I do? Woe is 
me! what shall I say? Oh, jfair, 
^weet f ather, what will become 
of me? Now shall I be undone 
and brought to shame ; now shall 
I be driven hence, and be made 
a butt of out there in the world 
that is so full of evil. J^oly Sl^ary, 
J>weet 3tady, how is my mind 
bewildered! Where to turn for 
counsel I know not. ftady, come 
you to my counsel. Sl^ost 4E>ra- 
cious <*Bod, now succour me! 

30 



Rest not, stay not, come, and 
your holy Smother thereto; in 
<©od's name come not without 
her. Come ye both to my suc- 
cour, for in sooth I know not 
how to plead. They will say 
straightway and at the first 
word: 'Hence! get you gone!' 
Woe is me! what can I answer, 
I who know not a word to say? 
Alas, what avails it? Go hence 
I needs must," Weeping, so that 
his face was wet with his tears, 
he came before the abbot ; weep- 
ing, he kneeled down before him. 
"My lord," he said, "mercy, in 
435od's name. Would you drive 
me out from here? Say what you 
command of me, and I will do 
all your bidding." 

3J 




HEN the abbot said: "I 
would know concerning 
you, and I would that you should 
tell me the truth. You have 
been here for a long time, year 
in and year out, and I would 
know in what manner you serve, 
and how you earn your bread." 
"Alas," said he, "well knew I 
that when my labours became 
known I should straightway be 
driven forth, and the folk here 
would have no more to do with 
me. I will go my way, my lord," 
he said. "Wretched I am, and 
wretched I shall be, and of good 
I never did any whit." The ab- 
bot answered: "I do not say 
that. But I beg and entreat, and 
thereto I command you in virtue 

32 



of obedience, that you open your 
heart to me, and tell me by 
what trade you serve us here in 
our monastery." " My lord," re- 
turned the other, "you take my 
life, for your command is as 
death to me." Then he told him, 
howsoever great was his grief, 
all the story of his life from end 
to end, and left not a word un- 
said, but told it all in one tell- 
ing, just as I have told it to you. 
He said and related it all to 
him, weeping and with clasped 
hands; and, sighing, he kissed 
his feet. 

The holy abbot came to him, 
and, weeping, he raised him up. 
He kissed him on both his eyes. 
" Brother," he said, " now say no 

33 



more, for I pledge you my word 
that you shall be of our fellow- 
ship. <d5od grant that we may be 
so deserving in our own as to 
be of yours! And you and I 
will be good friends. Fair, sweet 
brother, pray for me, and I will 
pray for you. And I beg you, 
sweet friend, and command you 
in all sincerity that you perform 
your service even as you have 
done hitherto, and yet more dili- 
gently if you are able." "My 
lord," he asked, "is this said in 
very truth?" " In very truth," 
returned the abbot. And that he 
might be no more in doubt, he 
laid a penance upon him, where- 
at the good man was so rejoiced 
that, as the story says, he scarce 
knew what befell. 34 



f E must needs sit him down, 

and he turned all pale; and 

>when his heart came back to 

?him, his body was so rudely 

Jshaken by joy that a malady fell 

upon him, whereof he shortly 

died. But he did his office right 

cheerfully, and without rest, 

morning and evening, day and 

^ night, so that he missed not a 

(^single hour until he fell sick. 

ij\Vj^g OW, in sooth, the sick- 

^InH! ness ^^ ^ e ^ k* m was 
Qj^&sl) so great that he might not 

%6stir from his bed. And he was 

(o'in grievous trouble for that he 

<S) could not pay his dues; and this 

it was that tormented him most, 

for he complained no whit of 

his sickness, save that he feared 

35 



much lest he lose his penance, 
since he might no longer per- 
form such labour as he had been 
wont to do. It seemed to him 
that he was all too slothful; and 
the good man, who was very 
simple, prayed 4Bod to receive 
him before he were undone by 
idleness. For he was in such 
sore distress, in that his affair 
had become known, that his 
heart might not endure it, and 
he must perforce lie still and 
might not stir. The holy abbot 
did him much honour, for he 
and his monks came every hour 
and sang before the bed. And 
the good man took such delight 
in what they sang to him of 
4Bod that, if one had offered 

36 



him the whole of Poitou in ex- 
change therefor, he would not 
have taken it, such joy had he in 
hearing. He confessed and was 
penitent, and yet he doubted 
• somewhat fearfully concerning 
[himself. But what need of more? 
I In the end death came to him. 
3Si$ HE abbot and all his 
^YCll^ monks were there, and 

J^b&s^o many a priest and many 
la canon; they stood humbly 
(watching the good man, and 
•they saw all clearly a wondrous 
miracle. For they all saw with 
their own eyes that when he 
was about to die the Smother 
of 40od and the angels and the 
archangels came about him. 
And on the other side were the 

37 



devils and the imps and the fu- 
ries, — this is no fable. But the 
fiends crowded about him, and 
waited and watched in vain, for 
they were to have no part in his 
soul. For even as the soul left the 
body, and before it had time to 
fall, it was received by the poth- 
er of oBod. And the holy angels 
who were there go their way 
singing for joy, and carry him 
to heaven as was decreed. And 
this was seen by the whole broth- 
erhood, and by all the others who 
were there. Now they all knew 
and understood that <6od would 
no longer hide His love for His 
servant, butwouldthat all should 
know and recognise the man's 
goodness. And much they mar- 

38 



veiled, and much they rejoiced 
thereat. They did him great hon- 
our, and bore him into their 
church, where they performed 
the divine office in noble wise. 
And there was not one who did 
,% not either sing or read in the 
/fe) choir of the great church. 
\!^^^HEY buried him with 
great honour, and looked 
} £JM$$M on him as a saint. And 
|[pSw*5sthen fairly and openly 
J the abbot told them all the ad- 
£* J venture of the good man, and 
^}) of his way of life, even as you 
have heard it, and of all he him- 
self had seen in the crypt. And 
the convent listened gladly. " In 
sooth," said they, "it is good to 
believe; and none should doubt 

39 



you concerning this thing, for 

truth bears witness to it. The 

matter is well proved at need; 

and henceforth must there be no 

4doubt but that he has done his 

j penance," Great joy had they 

[among themselves thereat. 

j^rg HUS the minstrel came 

^YC^^ t0 k* s enc *- **e tumbled 
ro3S«5 well, and served well; for 
J thereby won he great honour 
/, (such that no other may com- 
^pare therewith. The holy fa- 
thers tell us that thus it befell 
this minstrel. And now let us 
pray to <(B>od, who is above all, 
that He grant us to serve Him 
so well that we may deserve 
His love. 

Here ends the story of Our 
Lady's Tumbler. ^q 




This edition of OUR LADY'S 
TUMBLER is printed by John 
Wilson and Son of Cambridge 
during February, 1898, for Cope- 
land and Day, Boston. 



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